


Invitation

by Darkhorse



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Episode: Invasion, F/M, Fix-It, Letters, WWII, Wartime Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25315327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkhorse/pseuds/Darkhorse
Summary: What I wish had happened in "Invasion" letter". Completely A/U obviously.
Relationships: Andrew Foyle/Sam Stewart
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> My first Foyles War fanfiction after falling into the series this summer, and the fandom a week ago. Because while I sort of understand the writer's decisions with this episode, I don't have to like them, or obey them.

The post was on the door mat, Sam felt it under her feet as she entered the dark house. First set the blackout curtains on the door and the windows. Then she can flick on the small lamp near the front window. Andrew looked back at her from the thin bevelled frame, face formal, but the slightest ghost of a twinkle in his eye. She couldn't help but smile back at him as she slips off the lid of the box at his side, taking a cigarette and lighting it. Just for a few puffs, she can't really stand the taste and it's far too expensive a habit to take up, but he'd tucked his cigarette case in her pocket at that last goodbye before flying to Debden and, well, that was a connection, wasn't it. She picked up the scattering of letters, sorting through them as she crossed the room. Finally, there is the white RAF correspondence envelope with her name on it. The other girls' letters she sets down on the side, turning the little envelope over in her hands to carefully tear open the top even as she tugs the cord on the last lamp by the stairs. She's reading it even before she settles comfortably on the stairs.

_12 th March 1942_

_Dear Sam_

_I'm sorry it has been so long since I've written, sorrier still that these short letters are all you get. In can't say I've had a good time up here at Depden so far, lots of reasons, of course because I miss you. I never seem to get any long leave up here, just the odd pass, but not enough to come down. The chaps I'm training are alright as they go, nice enough, but it seems so long ago that I was as green as them and with rank and everything else Here there was a thoroughly scratched out few words it's hard. and there's all the rank considerations in making friends. I was spoilt being so close to home before. I miss you dreadfully Sam. You've always put the world the right way up again, even when I was bitter and being a total cad, right from the start. I could do with that now, the way things are. Your letters are wonderful, I do wonder at when you manage to write them every week, but perhaps that's just me being a dreadful correspondent. You'll have to compare notes with Dad._

The droll tone came through even on the paper, and she felt the small smile grow as she turned the paper over to read the other side. The ink was slightly different, as if he'd paused between the two halves

_Sam, I've written this piece of the letter in draft three times and it's never right. This isn't the right way to ask this, but it's the only one I have. Will you marry me?_

Sam re-reads the words twice, and they don't change. There's no-one to notice if she holds the paper tighter in her hands as she carries on reading

_Not right now of course (both our fathers would have things to say about THAT, I think) but one day I mean, when this beastly war is over? Because I love you and being up here has made me realise that I don't want to be without you in my life. You are sharp and clever and witty, and you don't take nonsense or let people walk over you. You've seen me at my worst, Sam, in all manner of ways and yet you didn't give up on me, and you always had the right thing to say, even if it was so out of key in the moment._

_I don't expect an immediate answer, it wouldn't be fair. But if you'd think on it at least-_

_A runner has just come from WingCo for me, so I leave off here._

_Take care of yourself_

_With much love and every yours_

_Andrew_

Sam looked at the letter in her hands, turned it over and read it again, a finger on each line. The words didn't change by so much as one letter. Consciously, carefully she folded it into its neat folds and tucked it back into the envelope safely.

Andrew wanted _her_ to marry him?

He thought she was clever and witty and capable. Not just someone with an incorrigible habit of talking too much, trained into her by endless polite vicarage teas, and a desire to be friendly and likeable to people she'd met.

Marrying... They hadn't really talked about it, not outright and in so many words, everything was too uncertain for that, no matter he was a training officer, he was still in the RAF, flying planes everyday and could go back to a fighter squadron. There seemed no end in sight to the war, North Africa notwithstanding and Hastings had been bombed quite regularly enough last year, with her in it. You lived day by day, week by week, maybe light-heartedly making long plans to ward off fear, but not properly. Even when she was being optimistic, she admitted it deep inside herself

_Well Samantha_ , said a voice inside her head, a little like one of her uncles _What do you think is the right and proper course of action._ Which wasn't overly helpful of it, given that that depended on whether she thought with her head or her heart.

The heart that had been worrying over the lack of letter; the heart that was piping 'yes yes yes' in ever increasing volume, that saw that Andrew saw her for herself; that remembered how politely he'd asked to kiss her after the film, how fun he was to be with and talk with, and he'd acknowledged that he'd been a cad early on... and had done better.

The head, the over practical head pointed out that There Was A War On, if she hadn't noticed, that war-time was no time to be making those sorts of decisions for life, even if they were tied to that mysterious After-the-War. That she would be setting herself up for heartbreak, as he was in the Forces, That she had seen Andrew only a very few times in person, that he was rash and impetuous...

 _Fun, wonderful, foolish and brave_ chimed in the heart

And that she had no idea what he was like in peacetime, he could be a completely hopeless sponger. But then, nobody at Lyminster had wanted to see her in the MTC, or away from home and _she_ was perfectly capable at that. War changed people, she could see that in Andrew and in the background of his letters, what little he told her. It was certainly landing responsibility on both their shoulders.

She would sleep on it, decisions were always sounder with the help of sleep, unless you started re-deciding again when you woke up. And he had given her time, as much as she wanted.

* * *

_17 th March 1942_

_Dear Andrew_

_Recv'd your letter of 12 th March. In answer to your question, Yes._

_Try and come down soon. We have Yanks nearby now, they have lots of rations but are very forward. Your father seems to have been co-opted/coerced into being cultural advisor I would be interested to see what you think of them. I'm not sure what I think, really. I'd rather it were an OTU of RAF._

_Stay safe, fly high._

_Ever more yours_

_Sam_

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments, particularly on the characterisation of Sam are gratefully appreciated. If I have mis-dated the episode, please let me know.


End file.
